


The Night Train

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Top John, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:33:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson cannot afford London on an army pension, so he's on his way to Cornwall on the sleeper train. Of course, he won't be travelling alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cover Art

**Author's Note:**

> For hotdamnshezza, the winner of my little giveaway. I hope it's okay!

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was a quiet night in Paddington Station.

The glass canopies of the old Victorian train shed were brightly lit against the dark of the night sky. Here and there whistles sounded, calling for travellers headed home to Bristol or Cardiff after a weekend in London. The shops and ticket counters were closed, and the usually crowded concourse was nearly deserted.

A handful of passengers talked and laughed as they made their way down the dull grey surface of Platform 1 and ducked into the First Class Lounge through one of the ornate arched doorways in the white promenade wall.

John Watson watched them pass, feeling invisible. He remained out on the platform beneath the station clock rather than following them into the black and white, comfortably furnished rooms with bar and WiFi. He’d looked through the windows when he’d arrived, but there were too many people and they were all as likely to ignore his presence as the two preoccupied couples who’d just walked around him.

He knew he was not a commanding presence, being of smaller stature and relatively unarresting features. His close-cropped, greying sandy brown hair was nothing to take note of, though his dark blue-greyish eyes were all right, he supposed. Still, most people these days hardly paid him any attention. He moved through London’s crowded streets like a ghost, only occasionally meriting a look of pity when someone noticed his cane.

He sighed and shrugged his pack more heavily onto his back, tugging on one sleeve as he did. He was simply dressed for his journey in khaki trousers and black Haversack ‘shooting’ coat, which was one of two unexpected Christmas gifts from his sister, Harry. What little other clothing he could be bothered about was in his bag.

John checked his watch—it was nearly quarter past ten now. He’d arrived much earlier than he needed to for the sleeper to Penzance, but Harry had insisted on driving him and she’d mixed up the times. Fortunately, he’d already been packed. He’d been doing his best to avoid her since he got out of hospital, so he’d felt it would be churlish to refuse her offer.

They’d never got on, and he’d refused to ask her for anything. Still, she’d seemed genuinely sad to see him go. She’d made a half-hearted offer for him to sleep on her sofa, but they really weren’t on such terms. Even if they had been, he’d have said no. It wasn’t the sort of help he really needed.

Though, at this moment, he wasn’t entirely sure what sort of help it was he _did_ need.

He shifted his weight and placed his cane as he took a step to begin pacing again. His leg was aching, but he wasn’t willing to sit on one of the hard benches. He turned to head back out past the statue of Paddington Bear.

The lateness of the hour had particularly appealed to him when an old friend from medical school, Mike Stamford, had offered to pay for a sleeper berth for the trip to Cornwall. Fewer passengers meant less racket. Everything was so much louder than he remembered, which was bizarre considering the noise levels where he’d been. Somehow, though, the regular everyday sounds of life jangled his nerves. Perhaps it was the effects of the insomnia, or just another symptom of what his therapist had very quickly diagnosed as post-traumatic stress disorder.

Whatever the case, it was clear he was no longer in any way fit for civilian life. Especially not in the city he loved. Not that it mattered. He’d be leaving London soon enough, and probably for good.

John turned, nearly at the end of the platform and began the walk back to the car where he knew his berth was located. His halting gait echoed a little as he made his way alongside the First Great Western Night Riviera. As he passed, staff emerged from the train and began setting up for boarding.

He stopped at last near his door and pulled out his ticket. He shifted his pack once more, waiting for the announcement. Some of the other passengers had begun to filter out from the lounge, and their conversations and holiday plans rolled over him as they began to gather in their small units around the spot where he was standing.

He caught the movement at the far end of the platform out of the corner of his eye. A tall, handsome young man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, was striding briskly toward John and the other passengers. He carried no luggage; only a small package tucked under one arm.

John turned fully to watch him approach, fairly certain that such a man would never notice him and would therefore be unaware of John’s curious appraisal.

The man had nearly raven hair, worn in Romantic waves. He was dressed in a dark suit, covered by a dramatic wool overcoat that flowed out behind him as he hurried along. His face was long, punctuated by sharp cheekbones and softened by a full mouth, which was currently drawn into a tight line.

The man looked…angry? No, concerned. He was worried about something, John thought.

As he came closer, John could see the young man’s unusual light-coloured eyes. So striking were they that it took John several minutes to realize that this handsome young man—who had almost reached the spot where John was standing—was not only aware that John had been staring, but was staring right back.

John was about to glance away in shame, his cheeks feeling decidedly warm, when he further realized that the object of his attention was headed right for him…and showed no signs of slowing down.

He glanced around quickly; there must be someone immediately behind him who was the attractive man’s target. Seeing no one who was even looking in that direction, John turned back.

And just in time.

“Darling!” the man called. He barrelled into John, roughly gathering him into his arms with his small package pinned between them.

John was stunned momentarily, too taken by surprise to struggle or to prevent his cane and pack from dropping to the platform. He was surrounded by the man: His dark coat, his long and surprisingly strong arms, and the lingering aroma of expensive tobacco.

Realizing he was clinging desperately to a complete stranger—and _sniffing_ him, to boot—John was about to make his captor aware that he was not to be underestimated when a rich, honeyed voice rumbled against his ear.

“I’m in danger and I need your help. There are two men following me and they will kill me. Please go along with the charade. It’s a matter of national security.”

John hesitated, not sure whether he’d just been commandeered by a spy or embraced by a madman. Somehow, though, it didn’t matter.

He peered cautiously over the taller man’s shoulder, confirming the presence of two enormous men with no necks dressed all in black. The two goons slowed their pace as the gathering crowd turned to watch the “romantic reunion.” Unfortunately, the two enforcers continued to hover further down the platform, waiting for an opportunity—most likely when the other passengers lost interest in the scene John and his new companion were playing out in front of them.

There was only one thing for it.

John drew back from the embrace only far enough to grasp the handsome face with both hands and cry, “God, how I’ve missed you!” before covering the stranger’s lips with his own.


	3. Chapter 3

John had intended the kiss to be brief—hard and passionate (and convincing), but brief. But when his own slightly chapped lips touched the warm, pliant mouth of the young man in his arms, his intentions became blurred.

His spy tasted like peppermint.

The full lips parted beneath his own on a sigh. They were so much softer than John would have imagined, yet firm and responsive. A clever tongue darted out to meet his and they teased at one another.

John tightened his grip and angled his head for deeper access. He grunted his extreme pleasure at the feel of the lean, male body against his own. He was very nearly lost to the sensations of the first real romantic or sexual contact he’d had in eighteen months when his hips were dragged up against the man he was kissing. And he felt the very real, very hard evidence of his companion’s interest in the proceedings.

John ended the kiss with a start, pulling back to regard the stranger with wide eyes. If the young man was in any way shocked or surprised by John’s actions or his own responses, he gave no sign.

He was very, very good.

“I’ve missed you, too,” the stranger said softly, his eyes moist with the beginnings of unshed tears and crinkling at the corners with what looked for all the world like a deeply sentimental smile.

John had to fight to keep from shivering at once again hearing the velvety baritone of the young man’s voice. God, it was like audible sex. Fortunately, he was saved from the embarrassment of having blown the cover he’d helped to create.

“Passengers for the Night Riviera Sleeper may begin boarding now, thank you!” the porter called.

The stranger leaned in once more. “Well done. Help me get on board and I’ll explain everything.”

“They’re still on the platform,” John whispered.

“I know. On a mobile?”

“Yes.”

“Hmmm, calling for help. Come on.”

John allowed himself to be turned. The stranger kept him tight to his side with one arm, even as he bent to retrieve John’s pack and stick. He handed them over with a grin and led John to the train.

The other passengers, who’d looked right through John only minutes before, now grinned at him mischievously as he and his new “friend” joined the queue.

“How long have you been apart?” one middle-aged woman asked shyly.

“Oh, uhm…” John started.

“Months!” the handsome stranger interrupted. “It’s not an easy life, loving a soldier.” He winked at the woman and she giggled.

John’s head cranked around to goggle at the man holding him so snugly to his side.

“How—?”

“Not now,” the young man hissed under his breath. They’d reached the train door and the stranger tugged John’s forgotten ticket from his nerveless fingers, addressing the porter. “My fiancé has his ticket, but we weren’t sure I was going to be able to join him. May we purchase another fare?”

The porter regarded them with mild disapproval—for their lack of planning—before checking John’s ticket. “Oh, well, you’re all right,” he said with a thick Welsh accent. “You’re in a twin berth, anyway. I’ll send someone down with the machine once everyone’s settled.”

“Thank you so much,” the young man said, his voice dripping with gratitude. He dragged John behind him up the stairs. He glanced at the ticket briefly and turned to their left down the narrow corridor.

John followed, only now considering the ramifications of his decision on the platform. Perhaps he’d been too hasty. He really didn’t have any reason to trust the handsome stranger, still clutching the small package.

“Shut up.”

“What?” John asked, thoroughly confused. “I haven’t said anything!”

The stranger turned narrowed eyes on him. “You’re thinking. It’s annoying.” He glanced back to the door they were approaching. “Ah, this is it!”

He shoved the door open and unceremoniously dragged John in behind him. John lost his footing on the threshold and stumbled. With his cane still under his arm, John would have fallen had it not been for the man now taking up so much of the severely limited space in his room.

“Carefully,” the man said, catching John by his jacket and setting him back on his feet.

John shifted awkwardly, squeezing up against his companion to be able to push the door closed behind them. The blue and beige, closet-sized space was narrow, of course, as train compartments were wont to be—John thought he’d almost be able to span the width with his arms. And lengthwise it was not much bigger. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand face to face beside the berths, both of which were neatly made with crisp white sheets and duvets.

“This is…nice,” the stranger remarked, turning to lift the counter under the small window. He glanced beneath it at the steel washbasin before setting it back down and placing his package on it.

“Yeah,” John intoned, backing up against the closed door in an effort to put some distance between them. “Look—”

“Name’s Sherlock Holmes,” the young man said suddenly, sticking a hand out.

John took it, feeling a bit silly shaking hands with Sherlock Holmes when he’d been snogging him only moments before—even if it was pretend. “John Watson.”

Sherlock turned again, rubbing his hands together. “So, first things first: I’ll need to borrow your phone.”

“My—hang on. I think I need a little information before—”

“Come, come, Dr. Watson,” Holmes chided. “Plenty of time for that. Well, I say plenty…once the train departs we’ll have approximately 50 minutes before we reach Reading, where I am certain my pursuers will make an effort to board the train and…reacquire me.”

“Who _are_ you?”

“Consulting Detective,” Holmes said, flopping down onto the lower berth and leaning back on his hands.

“And that means what exactly?”

“When the members of Scotland Yard—or, occasionally, as in this particular instance, the secret service—are out of their depth, they call me.”

“No.” John shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, a sinking feeling pulling at his guts. A madman, then.

“No?”

“No. The police don’t consult amateurs. And I’m pretty sure MI6 doesn’t employ civilians on a casual basis.”

Holmes smirked at him.

“Look, Mr. Holmes…”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Sherlock,” John repeated. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the unusual name. Somehow it suited Holmes exactly. “Whatever trouble you’re in, I’m sure there’s a way out of it. Is it money?”

“May I use your phone?”

John hesitated. “What for?”

“I need to send a text.”

“You don’t have a phone of your own? That isn’t standard equipment for spies?”

“I’m not a spy,” Sherlock admonished, dipping his chin. “Consulting Detective. And yes, it is standard equipment. Unfortunately my old friends—” he waved a hand in the direction of the platform “—destroyed mine when they caught up with me earlier.”

John stared, only just noticing the tiny scrape over Sherlock’s right cheekbone. The bruise was beginning to form. “Are you all right?” he asked, stepping closer. “Do you have any other injuries?”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m fine, thank you, doctor.” He extended his hand, uncurling fine-boned, long fingers. “Your phone?”

John’s brow furrowed. “I don’t…wait a minute, how did you know I was a doctor?”

Sherlock smirked once more. “Your phone. Please.”

John handed it over, suddenly feeling quite shaken. He leaned back against the door and watched, fascinated, as Sherlock tapped out his message.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked as he typed.

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock glanced up at John for a moment before returning his gaze to John’s phone.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how on earth did you know…?”

“There,” Sherlock said triumphantly, clearly hitting send on his message.

He handed the phone to John, who glanced at the screen briefly before shoving it back into his pocket. Sherlock stood abruptly bringing him once more into very close quarters with John. John looked up at the man, still puzzled (and a little concerned) but helplessly intrigued.

“There…what?” he said, more breathlessly than he’d intended. Sherlock was mere millimetres away now, using his extra height to loom over John. Clearly the man had no sense of personal space. Which, for some reason, didn’t bother John in the slightest.

“There, I’ve sent my report,” Sherlock rumbled, leaning in near John’s upturned face until their noses were nearly touching. “And now,” he replied with a grin, “We get something to drink. Tea?”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock tapped his fingertips restlessly against the coffee cup. “You have questions.”

John was sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He pursed his lips, about to speak when one of the serving staff passed the table.

“Can I get you two gentlemen anything else?” he asked genially.

“No,” Sherlock said tersely.

John scowled at him and turned a pleasant expression toward the server. “I think we’re okay. Thanks.”

“Very good,” the server said smoothly. He retrieved the beer glass John had emptied within minutes of ordering it and took his leave.

“Thank you,” John said again, watching as the man walked back down the length of the virtually empty lounge car. He leaned in now, fairly itching for answers. “All right, I’ve been patient. How did you know about me?

Sherlock leaned in, resting his elbows on the narrow table between them and steepling his fingers. “How did I know…what? That you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan? That you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him? Possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Or that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic? Quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John knew his mouth was hanging open. “Jesus…”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said smugly. “No, it’s a simple matter of observation. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your hands and the small Rod of Asclepius on the tag on your bag say doctor. So Army doctor—obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk, but you forget about it when you’re distracted, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan…Afghanistan or Iraq.

John licked his lips, utterly fascinated. “You said I had a therapist.”

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you’re on your way to live in Cornwall, so you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. But it’s covered in scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting across from me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

“The engraving.”

“To Harry Watson, From Clara, xxx,” Sherlock quipped. “Harry Watson, clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live in London. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently—this model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left him, he would have kept it. People do: Sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You’re moving away rather than going to your brother for help—that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

“How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark. Good one, though,” Sherlock grinned. “It was the power connection; tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.” He drained his coffee cup and glanced about at the empty lounge car. “There you go, you see. You were right.”

“I was right?” John said weakly. “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock looked away out the window, biting his lip.

If John had to guess, he’d have said Sherlock was nervous waiting for his reaction. He smiled to himself. “That…was amazing.”

Sherlock turned back to John, his eyes darting about as he attempted to process John’s reply. After several seconds of silence, finally he said, “Do you think so?

“Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!”

The laughter bubbled up and John simply couldn’t contain it. It had been so long since he’d laughed, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like it. And yet here he was, sitting on a midnight train with an erstwhile spook running from god only knew who, laughing like a schoolboy.

“Only one thing,” John said, still chuckling. “Harry is short for Harriet.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted. “Sister!” he hissed. He shook his head and sighed. “There’s always something.”

“Is there?” John teased.

Sherlock laughed lightly, glancing up at him from beneath his lashes. “We, uhm, we don’t have much time before we reach Reading.”

“Right. And if you’re correct about these people who are after you…”

“Which I am.”

“Then we’ll have company soon. Who are they, Sherlock?” John asked softly. “And what is that?” He jerked his thumb at the small package Sherlock had brought with them from the sleeper car.

Sherlock glanced down at the bundle of brown paper next to his arm. “I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Official secrets. And the less you know, the better off you are. The men following me were hired by a rogue Argentine general.”

“So what do we do now?”

Sherlock checked his watch. “Well, we have about twenty minutes. Fancy a nap?”

John’s cheeks flushed as his mind immediately jumped ahead to other activities they could get up to back in their room. In truth, he’d been thinking about it since the moment he’d kissed Sherlock back on the platform—even when he’d thought Sherlock was a nutter. He hadn’t been with a man in quite a while, but Sherlock was bloody gorgeous and exciting and…

Sherlock licked his lips as he stared at John. “Or—”

“Yes,” John replied, standing. There was no one else nearby to see the enormous bulge straining the front of his trousers.

Sherlock, now at eye level with it, licked his lips again. “Right. Good.” He stood as well and moved to follow as John limped back in the direction of their berth.

Within minutes, John was shoving the door open and tossing his cane to the floor. He turned to reach for Sherlock as the man followed him into the small compartment and closed the door behind them. Sherlock fell into him, groaning as their mouths pressed together.

“Fuck, you taste incredible,” John said, his voice husky. He licked at the corners of the Cupid’s bow, chasing the remnants of sweet coffee, before plunging his tongue within.

Sherlock had hold of him by his jacket, he tilted his head to give John better access to his mouth and pressed his body into John’s shorter one. “John…”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

John scrabbled at Sherlock’s scarf and dragged it away from the lovely pale skin of Sherlock’s neck. He fastened his mouth over the tender flesh.

Sherlock gasped and bucked into John, his long fingers winding into the strands of John’s hair. “It’s been so long,” he groaned.

“For me, too,” John rumbled, lapping his way down to suckle at Sherlock’s clavicle. “Christ, you are so beautiful.”

“John.” Sherlock’s tone was pleading.

John could feel the reason against his belly. Sherlock was as hard as he was. He shifted until Sherlock’s muscular thigh was between his legs and pressed his own aching cock into it as he rubbed his torso against Sherlock’s prick.

“Oh! Oh, god!”

John shoved at the heavy coat on Sherlock’s shoulders, gratified when Sherlock lifted his arms to let it fall to the ground. The suit coat beneath it followed. John fumbled with buttons until he’d parted Sherlock’s expensive shirt and revealed rosy brown nipples. He dipped his head and captured one between his lips, working the pebbled nub with teeth and tongue. The train jerked sharply and Sherlock’s knees buckled; John braced them both against the closet wall as he continued to suckle.

“John, oh, yes. Oh, god. I want you to fuck me. Fuck me, please.”

John lifted his head from his tasty morsel and met the younger man’s dilated eyes. “I have…in my bag…”

Sherlock reached to the side, where John’s bag lay on the bed and began to fumble within as John continued his ministrations on Sherlock’s other nipple. Sherlock was grunting with desperation as he threw pants and socks out on the floor. “Fuck! Where…oh, thank god.”

He drew out the tidy plastic zipper bag with condoms and lubricant. He shook the contents loose as John worked on the fastenings of his trousers. Button and zipper loosed, John tugged the fine wool down to Sherlock’s knees.

“Oh, my god,” John groaned. “Look at you.”

He dragged worshipful fingertips over the length of Sherlock’s slender cock. It took only a few light strokes before it was fully erect; the foreskin retracted to reveal the dark red and dampened head. John smoothed both hands up over Sherlock’s hips and under his shirt to caress his lean abdomen. With a wry smile, John shoved Sherlock back against the wall and wedged himself down onto his knees into the narrow space between his waiting lover and the bed. His eyes locked with Sherlock’s, John extended his tongue to flick at the moisture beginning to ooze from Sherlock’s slit.

“Oh, FUCK!”

Sherlock’s head slammed back against the wall, his eyes closed and fingers clutching desperately at John’s head. John chuckled as he happily obliged, allowing Sherlock’s throbbing cock to ride the surface of his tongue into his warm, watering mouth. He hummed his pleasure at the salty taste and silky texture of his lover’s flesh. Sherlock’s breath hitched as John sucked him down, inch by inch.

“John! Oh, so good. You feel so good.”

John drew back, sucking hard as the firm prick slid from his mouth. He held the crown between his lips, teasing at the fraenulum with his tongue for a few minutes before sliding back over Sherlock’s length. He began bobbing against Sherlock’s body, holding the man firmly by his thighs and massaging over the light dusting of coarse hair.

Sherlock was soon panting, trying and failing to form words. He tugged desperately at John’s hair. John relented, not wanting to miss out on feeling Sherlock’s orgasm from inside him.

John struggled to stand in the limited space, sliding up over Sherlock’s frame with his lover’s tugging help. Sherlock kissed him hungrily, greedily, sucking on John’s tongue and moaning into his mouth.

“Fuck me,” he begged breathlessly.

John kissed him once more before shuffling around—mildly impeded by the clothing puddled at their feet—so that Sherlock was facing the window, bent over the counter.

“Sherlock,” John groaned, stroking over the plump mounds of Sherlock’s arse.

“Please, John,” Sherlock begged, his legs shaking as he shimmied his trousers to the floor and stepped one foot out of them. He spread his legs wide, lowering his stance, and braced himself against the window. “Please.”

John reached blindly for the lube, hurriedly squeezing a generous amount out into his palm and then dribbling some over Sherlock’s exposed pucker. He worked the lube into the perfect, pink hole with one finger.

“More,” Sherlock demanded. “Faster.”

“Patience,” John breathed, trying to work his own cock free of his trousers. He pumped his middle finger in and out of Sherlock’s body until he was reasonably certain he could add another without discomfort. He slid his index finger in alongside the first and scissored his fingers, gently stretching at the tight (oh, god, so tight) rings of muscle.

Sherlock was making impatient noises, rotating his hips into John’s every thrust. “Enough. PLEASE!”

John quickly added a third finger and worked Sherlock’s rim as best he could before grabbing for one of the condoms. He tore at the foil packet with his teeth and rolled it into place with shaking fingers. He slathered himself with more lube and rubbed the head of his sheathed cock over Sherlock’s winking arsehole.

“Now,” Sherlock groaned. “Fuck me!”

John eased forward as gently as he could, struggling against the rocking of the train. Sherlock tried to press back into him, but John grasped the narrow hips firmly and held him in place.

“Let me,” he growled. “I have you.”

He bottomed out, dropping his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder with a moan as his balls rucked up against Sherlock’s heated, moist flesh.

“Jesus! You’re so tight. So hot.”

“Don’t stop. Please.”

John kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Course not, you gorgeous thing.” He withdrew gently before thrusting back in once more.

Sherlock groaned, fingertips scraping at the glass in front of him. “Harder,” he begged.

John obliged, abandoning gentle for a pounding rhythm. He slapped against Sherlock’s lovely, rounded bottom, reaching around to cup and fondle the man’s dribbling cock. Sherlock’s fingers covered his own and guided him as they stroked together, in time with John’s thrusts.

It wasn’t long before Sherlock was writhing. “Gonna…ungh…come. John…oh, god. Coming…”

John shouted as Sherlock’s body clamped around his prick while the man’s cock striped the wall in front of them.

“Oh, fuck!” John rasped, grinding into the delicious arse as his own body began to unravel. “FUCK!” He thrust once more, hard, as his orgasm washed over him and his cock pulsed inside Sherlock’s fluttering heat.

John dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder blade, desperately sucking air into his lungs. Sherlock was shaking, his arms and legs threatening to give way. John slid sideways, hauling Sherlock with him—still impaled on his cock—until he was sitting on the bottom berth with the taller man in his lap.

“Oh, god,” John gasped. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock’s high-pitched giggle made John smile. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John giggled, too. “Well, that wasn’t just me.”

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s waist as they got their breath back. He smoothed a hand lazily over Sherlock’s belly. “This was—”

“Damn!” Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly bolting to his feet.

John winced a little at their dramatic uncoupling. He leaned back to avoid flying elbows as Sherlock struggled back into his clothes. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock rounded on him. “We’re barely moving, John! The train—it’s going to stop!”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock pulled on his coat and dragged John to his feet. He grabbed the parcel he’d been carrying and pressed himself out of the way as John removed the spent condom and binned it, and tucked himself away.

“Are they here, do you think?” John asked, straightening his clothes.

Sherlock peered out through a gap in the door. “Probably. Hurry. And make sure you retrieve the _other_ protection from your pack.”

John grimaced and reached back into his sack for his contraband service revolver. He tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. “Ready.”

Sherlock pulled the door wide. He was in the process of moving out into the corridor when John heard shouting. Sherlock bolted, John right behind him. He glanced behind them as they sprinted through the narrow passageway and into the next car—there were two thugs, all right. Different than the two they’d seen in London.

“John, HURRY!”

John scrambled to keep up as they dashed from car to car, keeping a weather eye on the two behind them.

As they passed through the last of the sleeper cars, one of the doors flew open as John passed it.

“What on earth is going on?” an older man in an old-fashioned nightshirt demanded.

“Get back in your room and stay there!” John shouted, waving at the man as he continued toward the door to the lounge car. “Get in! Go!”

There was a shout of alarm. John glanced over his shoulder through the window of the sliding door to see the man thrown backwards into his berth. The door slammed shut and the two men continued toward John unimpeded.

One of them reached inside his jacket.

“GUN!”

Sherlock rushed down the aisle between the empty seats and tables, spying the one remaining server near the buffet.

“Get DOWN!” he shouted.

The young woman swiftly complied, dodging behind the bar.

John hurried behind him, keeping his head down. He looked back just in time to see the weapon raised in their direction.

“Sherlock DOWN!!”

Sherlock hit the deck; John took shelter behind one of the tables and drew his own weapon. He ducked out from behind his cover and returned fire.

There was shouting out on the platform—the train was already pulling away, but one of the platform crew had heard the shots. John spied the man through the window, frantically tugging his radio out.

A bullet sank into the seat across from the table John was hiding behind. He fired twice more, feeling an immense satisfaction when he heard a cry of pain from one of the two thugs in the next car. He felt a tugging on the waistband of his trousers.

“This way,” Sherlock hissed. “Come on!”

John backed along the aisle behind Sherlock, never taking his eyes from the two men following them. When they’d reached the relative safety of the next car transition, John stood and followed Sherlock at a run.

They fled, dashing through the one car with regular seats; fortunately it was entirely empty.

“Sherlock!” John shouted finally as they passed through what had to be the final transition between cars. “Where are we going? Where can we—?”

John nearly ran into Sherlock’s back as the man came up short just inside the guards van.

“Greeting, Mr. Holmes.”

John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder at the short, well-dressed man before them. There were two more thugs behind him, one at each arm. The man was seated on a large piece of luggage, with his legs crossed. He was dark haired and fairly dark skinned, with a well-groomed moustache, but the accent didn’t sound South American to John.

“Come in, please. Join us.”

John glanced over his shoulder as the two men who’d chased them through the train finally caught up, bursting into the guards van. One was bleeding from a shoulder wound.

“Ah, there we are,” the man said cheerfully. “All here now. If you would be so kind?” The man nodded at John’s weapon, which one of two new arrivals relieved him of.

“Who are you working for?” Sherlock demanded.

“I think, perhaps, that is something I will keep to myself,” the man said smoothly.

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock urged. “You’re going to kill us anyway. Why not just give me the satisfaction?”

“Satisfaction?”

“Of being right once more before I die,” Sherlock said jauntily, gesturing with his free hand.

The man nodded again and one of the men behind him stepped forward to tug the brown-papered package from Sherlock’s grip.

“You see, I think you’re just the middle man,” Sherlock started. “You are a minor bureaucrat in the employ of the European Parliament, aren’t you Signor Lombardi? And your own country has no need of this.” Sherlock waved at the package as it was handed over to their host.

“What _is_ it?” John asked, unable to stand it any longer.

“A prototype,” Sherlock said casually. “For a virtually undetectable, hand-held nuclear device with enough power to destroy ten square kilometres.”

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“Quite right,” Lombardi agreed. “My own country has been part of this project, so we will share in the technology when it is fully tested and ready for deployment. But there are so many others who are interested, as you might well imagine.”

“Mhmmm,” Sherlock nodded. “And one of them is a radical who has infiltrated Argentina’s military—a sleeper who’s been biding his time, assembling his people and resources. Now you are about to hand him the means with which to threaten and hold hostage his government as the first stage of a coup d’etat.”

“So you know about him,” Lombardi conceded. “I suppose I’d have been disappointed in Interpol if you didn’t. But that won’t stop me from getting this to him. My plane is waiting nearby, and my diplomatic credentials will get me out of UK airspace well before anyone finds you and connects you to me.”

“But how did you get the prototype?” Sherlock asked softly. “That’s the part I can’t quite see. Only four people had access to it, and they all have exemplary records. And alibis.”

“Don’t be so literal, Mr. Holmes,” Lombardi said cheerfully, standing and striding toward them. “Oh, yes, I know who you are.” He smoothed a hand over the package. “The only thing one needs to produce an alibi is—”

“Time,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “Of course. The lead researcher: She has access to the atomic clock uplink for the lab.”

“As you say,” Lombardi sighed. “This has been very entertaining, but I’m afraid we really have to be going. I’m very sorry that you will not get to enjoy Penzance. I hear it is very pretty.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock shrugged.

“You don’t seem concerned,” Lombardi replied.

“I’m not. You see, I know something you don’t know.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re not the only one who knew the train would be stopping. Just. About. Here.”

John was about to ask what that meant when Sherlock dove for the wall, snagging the emergency stop lever as he fell. John flew backward as the train’s emergency brakes squealed to life. Sherlock, still clinging to the lever, grabbed at John’s coat and pulled him in close. They held on to each other as the train shuddered and dragged to a slow stop.

Lombardi landed in a heap in one corner, buried under a pile of luggage and bodyguards.

Recovering quickly, John was about to reach for one of the weapons that had been thrown free when he heard them.

“Helicopters?” he asked, turning to Sherlock.

“Indeed.”

They struggled to stand, only just gaining their feet as the doors to the guards van were thrown open and the SAS shouted at everyone to remain where they were. As soldiers circled the small car, identifying both heroes and villains, John gazed in wonder at his new friend, lover and comrade.

“That was—” he started, not at all sure what it was he meant to say.

“I know,” Sherlock beamed at him. “Want to see some more?”


	6. Epilogue

_The Turk’s Head Inn, Penzance_

John sipped his tea and then took another bite of his sandwich. He sighed, soaking in the sunshine as they sat in the window of the old pub.

After all of the chaos, the train had been delayed by more than two hours. The passengers had been given the option to continue their journey or be transported by bus to make other connections. He and Sherlock had opted to stay with the train, primarily because they had been needed until their “case” was cleared up.

John had waited in the wings, fretting as he watched Sherlock conferring with the SAS tactical unit. He hadn’t been sure what would happen next, and he hadn’t wanted to assume…well, anything.

At length, Sherlock had returned to him with a smile. “Shall we?” he’d said.

“Shall we what?”

“Go back to bed, of course,” Sherlock had said cheerfully.

“Oh, right,” John had replied, a bit stunned. “You’re going on to Penzance, then?”

“Well, we’ll have a lot to do, getting you moved into my flat when we get back to London. And then there will be all the paperwork from all of this. I could do with a mini-break to Cornwall.”

“Your…when we get back..?”

Sherlock had nodded. “Problem?”

John hadn’t been able to stop the smile that had broken out across his face as he’d shook his head. He’d taken Sherlock’s offered hand as they made their way back to their berth.

“By the way,” Sherlock had started.

“Yes?”

“Well, I was just wondering…where’s your cane?”

The warmth that had bloomed in John’s chest at that moment was still suffusing his entire body, even now—hours later—as they sat eating their lunch down the street from the charming B & B Sherlock had booked them in to.

“So all of that—it was just a trap?” he asked, dabbing mustard from his chin as he watched Sherlock stir more sugar into his coffee.

“Yup.”

“We never actually had the prototype. And you were just the bait?”

“More or less.”

“So you really didn’t know which of the researchers had betrayed the project? Their alibis were that good.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock said. “Not one of them had an alibi I could believe. Of the four, one had an identical twin, one had a gambling problem and an unreliable witness, one had a duplicate ID card, and one—”

“Had access to the atomic clock uplink.”

“Which gave her the ability to alter the timestamp of every security log in the building,” Sherlock nodded. “I’d managed to construct entirely plausible motives and means for each of them, so we needed to out the broker to find out who the leak was.”

“Huh,” John marvelled, shaking his head. He studied Sherlock for a moment, enjoying the play of the sunlight over the man’s dark curls. He reached out and brushed a ringlet back from Sherlock’s brow with one finger.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink as he glanced almost shyly at John. “You _were_ injured,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“In Afghanistan,” Sherlock replied. “Your leg was psychosomatic, but you _were_ wounded.”

John nodded, swallowing hard. “I, uh, yeah. Shoulder.”

Sherlock nodded. “Left?”

John shook his head with a grin. “No, no—sorry. I know you’re just guessing.”

“I never guess,” Sherlock argued, trying hard to sound offended.

“Yeah, you do,” John chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged with a cheeky quirk of his lovely mouth.

“I have a question,” John said softly.

“Yes?”

“Why me? On the platform—why did you choose me?”

“A pensioned soldier? A man who’d loyally served Queen and country?” Sherlock said. “Who better?”

“Oh.”

“And,” Sherlock continued, clearing his throat. His blush deepened. “That is, I…I found you…I thought you were very…”

“Convenient?” John offered. “Gullible?”

“Handsome,” Sherlock said firmly, sliding his hand across the table to squeeze John’s.

“Oh, god, me too,” John teased softly. “I was done for the moment I saw you. But of course you knew that, like you knew everything else.”

Sherlock looked down at the spot where their hands touched.

“I’m glad you were wrong about me staying here, though, in the end.” John looked out through the window at Penzance. “It’s charming, I suppose, and it was very good of my mate, Mike, to set me up with a position at his friend’s surgery here. But I’d far rather…hang on.”

“What?”

“How did you know I was moving and not just going on holiday?”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, looking a tad sheepish. “Well, that’s not terribly scientific.”

“No?”

Sherlock shook his head with a mischievous grin. “One-way ticket.”

John chuckled and took another sip of tea. “Git.”

Sherlock shrugged again, watching with interest as John’s phone buzzed.

John checked the new text, his eyes widening.

“What is it?”

“It says ‘Please convey my thanks to my brother, and tell him the next time he puts my operation at risk to satisfy his long-denied sexual appetites, I will have him thrown in The Tower.’”

“Oh,” Sherlock said blandly, taking another sip of coffee.

John blinked. “Is this—should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied with a gentle smile. “He texted you, which he never does. Means he approves of you.”

“Oh, right. That’s good, I guess,” John said. His eyes narrowed as he considered this. “Exactly who is your brother?”

“So, John, what does one do on a mini-break holiday in Penzance?”

John sighed at the obvious deflection. “Oh, we could go for a walk by the sea or go visit the ancient village—”

“Or?” Sherlock asked pointedly, his foot moving under the table to rub over John’s calf.

John leaned in. “Or we could go back to the bed and breakfast and scandalise Mrs. Trevelyan.”

“Making love in the afternoon?”

“Making love all day and all night?”

“Bit optimistic,” Sherlock joked. “Rather like that very well-stocked sex kit in your bag.”

“Oi, I was just…planning for any eventuality.”

“Army doctor and boy scout.”

“`Be prepared’ is right. And didn’t _everything_ in my bag come in handy?”

The wicked gleam in Sherlock’s eyes faded a little at John’s pleased, comfortable and accepting tone. He bit his lip again—which seemed to be the only indicator of uncertainty in the brash young detective.

“John, I’m…I’m glad you were there. On the platform.”

John brushed a thumb over Sherlock’s bruised cheek. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me, too. When I set out for the train last night, I could never have imagined…this.”

Sherlock straightened, sniffing a little and clearing his throat. “Right. Good, well, once we get back to town, there will be even more. I should tell you about 221B.”

“221B?”

“Your new home—221B Baker Street. It’s in the heart of London, close to everything. You’ll love it.”

John watched fondly as Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Yes, I’m sure I will.”


End file.
